


some say the world will end in fire, some say in ice

by hamstergyu



Category: K (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Avatar & Benders Setting, M/M, Sarumi Fest 2018
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-08
Updated: 2018-07-08
Packaged: 2019-06-07 03:39:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15210083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hamstergyu/pseuds/hamstergyu
Summary: Amidst the hundred-year-war, love blooms in the fire nation.(aka the sarumi avatar the last air bender au - written for sarumi fest 2018)





	some say the world will end in fire, some say in ice

Yata lies, flopped over, in the grassy fields that line his backyard.   Soft tendrils of wind play with his hair and Yata sucks in a deep breath to relish the crisp taste of his mom’s daffodils on his tongue.  Yata curls into the earth, allowing the grass to tickle his face and lull him into a gentle sleep. 

 

“Nii-san!” 

 

Yata groans.   He covers his face with his hands and _prays_ Minoru will leave. 

 

Minoru, shockingly, does not leave. 

 

He pounces on Yata and _oofs_ loudly.  Yata starts hacking violently but he can’t stay mad when Minoru digs his nose into Yata’s stomach to hide the giggles.  “Megumi keeps crying because Mama won’t give her anymore of crackly stuff.”   Minoru mimics chomping with his teeth.  “You know, the stuff that goes _boom_ in your mouth! It goes boom like Nii-san!”

 

Yata chuckles under his breath, he situates Minoru on his stomach and props himself up on his elbows.  Yata blows softly in Minoru’s face, allowing a gentle stream of smoke to curl around Minoru until the little boy shrieks and pushes his chest back into the grass. 

 

Minoru stumbles around to stand, dirt clings to his hair and he starts yanking on Yata’s hands.  “Mama also said you gotta hurry or else you’ll be late.” 

 

“Fuck!” Yata cries, he scrambles to his feet and starts frantically brushing stalks of grass from his hair.  Minoru clutches his stomach and collapses into a fit of giggles as Yata jogs past him – ruffling the little tuft of black hair that sticks out of his head. 

 

Yata tumbles into his kitchen like a hurricane – he clambers around, shoving all his loose tools and books into bag – bends over to land a sloppy, wet kiss on Megumi’s cheek, apologizes to his mom’s exasperated smile, chugs a glass of milk (he wants to get taller, after all) – and expertly jumps clear of Minoru _finally_ returning behind him as he calls his goodbyes and slams the door behind him.   “Have a good day, Yata!” His mother laughs.

 

With the door shut, Yata frowns – to his soft, peaceful, non-bending family – Yata Misaki is a fire-bending hurricane. 

 

Yata squints his eyes and catches a few familiar faces up the road.  Perhaps, if Yata was still eleven, bright-eyed, and naïve, he would have sprinted after them – looped his arms around their shoulders and skipped to school like the smiling idiot he is.  

 

Yata’s not eleven; he’s sixteen. 

 

“Oi, _Misaki-chan_!”  Yata groans and smacks a hand on his forehead, a boy twice his size tosses an arm over his shoulder.  He squeezes so hard Yata’s shoulder throbs with the coils of a new bruise bursting beneath his skin. “You didn’t even wait for me today,”

 

Yata huffs and ducks underneath the arm to shake it free.  “Fuck off Haruto – we’re not friends.” 

 

Haruto cackles and pinches Yata’s ear.  “Stop playing so hard to get,” he mocks as Yata yelps and struggles to shove him off.  “If you’re nice to me – I’ll even eat lunch with you today,”  His hot, gross-smelling breath fills Yata’s nostrils and he growls. 

 

Yata grunts; he kicks Haruto, sharp enough that he releases Yata’s ear with a shrill shriek and clutches his ankles with fresh tears forming in his eyes.  Yata would be lying if a little bit of pleasure didn’t hike up his spine.  Yata straightens his collar and puffs up his chest,  “I don’t want my lunch to go rotten because of your stinky breath,”  he smirks. 

 

“Haruto!” 

 

A few more boys from Yata’s class jog towards them – immediately dropping to their fallen comrade.  One of them snarls at Yata, “Isn’t your bending enough? Why do you always have to pick on us non-benders?” 

 

Yata pinches the bridge of his nose and shoots them an annoying glare, “I didn’t even _bend_ ,” he snaps.  “Haruto bothered me _first_.” 

 

Another boy barks out a laugh,  “You think we’re too weak to take you just because we can’t bend? Are you some war-sympathizer or something?  You don’t even deserve to bend.” The boy spits at him. 

 

Yata growls, he opens his mouth to hiss something, and the boy’s grin spread on his face – waiting to snatch him in a trap.  Yata snaps his mouth shut and remembers his father – his _real_ father – gripping his shoulders tightly and staring into Yata’s eyes with panic painting his face. _Do not tell anyone Misaki – do not ever tell anyone._   “Make fun of me all you want,” Misaki snorts instead, “But don’t equate me to _that_.  Those people are gross.” 

 

He shoves past the group of boys and doesn’t catch the tail end of the words they shout at him.   He stares down at his own hands, a frown evident on his face – is finding all bending beautiful that disgusting?  Yata doesn’t truly know – the only man to ever imply it wasn’t dropped him and his mother and left to escape the draft.

 

Sparks crackle at the tips of his fingers; Yata quickly blows them out and digs his fingers deep into his pockets. The loneliness seeps into his heart.  Yata yearns for a friend; he’s a sixteen-year-old kid who wants to hold someone’s hand and see the world – yet he’s trapped in a dead-end village with not a single hand to hold. 

 

Well, he has a letter, at least.  Yata grins softly and curls his hand around the scroll tucked at the very bottom of his school bag. 

 

_Dear Misaki,_

_You’re stupid.  Are you sure you’re not really a girl? I know a girl who’s almost as stupid as you – but you’re probably much stupider._

_Friends are just a name you give to people that you want to stab a little bit less.  I don’t have any – I hate everyone in this stupid world equally.  But you’re not wrong about school – it’s a god-awful place with god-awful brats who have no brains.  I’m at least ten time smarter than all of the upperclassmen, I hate this place._

_I don’t need friends._

_Sincerely,_

_F.S_

 

Yata grins, it started out as a lame school assignment a little over five years ago, around the first time he had entered middle school.  It ended up as a habit they never grew out of.

 

He can’t wait to get his hands on an ink pot later. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Saruhiko!”

 

Saruhiko cocks an eyebrow.  He peeks outside his father’s prized, velvet-silk curtains and watches Aya stand on their steps – shrieking his name as if it will actually draw him out.  Saruhiko clicks his tongue – what an idiot. 

 

“Saruhiko!” Aya shrieks louder and stamps her foot.  “If you don’t open the door right now – I’m going to burn your house down. 

 

Saruhiko lazily leans on his elbow, watching her through the slit in his curtains.  He counts the second in his head, a puff of flame erupts from her fingers – ridiculously small for a bender her age and Saruhiko grins.  He allows the embarrassed color to flood to her cheeks when the ashes fall from her fingertips before tossing the door open and leaning in the frame. 

“What do you want?” He drawls. 

 

Aya jumps, “You came!” She cheers and tumbles into his arms; she weaves herself around his torso and nuzzles her nose against his chest.  Saruhiko almost gags – the way she clings to him makes him itch all over his skin – he shoves her off rough enough that she lands on her ass. 

 

Aya only keeps the grin plastered to her face as she dusts off her skirt and sings in his face, “What are you doing today?”

 

Saruhiko narrows his eyes.  “That’s none of your concern.”

 

Aya keeps her eyes as wide an innocent looking as her smile – Saruhiko knows better.  “Don’t you wanna come play with me?  There’s a rumor that a new war-sympathizing family moved in down the street.”

 

Saruhiko rolls his eyes,  “They’d be stupid to be vocal about it,” 

 

Aya giggles, “A couple of us are going to go burn their house down – don’t ya wanna come?” 

 

Saruhiko’s blackened heart stammers for a second – brief enough that he clamps down the feeling and forces out a sneer instead.  “Clearly I won’t be of help to you.” 

 

Aya shrugs, “You can throw some knives at them,” 

 

Saruhiko rolls his eyes, “Even the underaged get arrested for manslaughter,” 

 

“Oh, is that my beautiful Aya-chan?”  Saruhiko freezes, his fingers tighten around the door-frame hard enough that his knuckles whiten, and bits of wood splinters stick into his skin.

 

Fushimi Niki towers behind him, he pats down Saruhiko’s hair and allows his hand to linger. “What brings you here today? Is my little monkey being mean to you?”  He giggles – little snakes of fire escape his fingertips to dance in front of Saruhiko’s eyes.  The heat forces beads of sweat to cling to his forehead, and the scent of burnt hair invades his nostrils – and small droplets of ash – his once thick, black hair – drip to the ground.  It doesn’t hurt though, it _never_ hurts. 

 

Aya swallows nervously – usually an array of colors dance across her face – but despite Saruhiko’s insistence;  Aya is no stupid girl.  “No, sir.  We were only talking.” 

 

“Talking?”  Niki draws away his fire and mimics his son leaning halfway into the doorway.  “What were you talking about? I’d like to know.” 

 

“I need help,” Aya says, Saruhiko gives her credit for the cool, unwavering expression she wears.  “Saruhiko is very good at studying so I asked him to tutor me,” 

 

“Is that so?”  Niki grins, he ruffles Saruhiko’s hair, and Saruhiko hates the beat his heart skips – as if waiting for fire to consume him entirely – but his father wouldn’t do that – he’d hate to lose such a precious toy, after all.  “What did he say?” 

 

“I said no.” Saruhiko snaps.  He shoves past his father, ignores the cackling sound of his laughter behind him as he mumbles some goodbye words to Aya and slams the door in her face. 

 

Saruhiko ignores the bile rising in his throat and sprints straight for his room – before his father comes for him.   Saruhiko gingerly shuts the door behind him, twisting the lock and barricading it with his dresser before pressing his ear tightly against the walls and listening for the sound of his father’s feather-light footsteps.  He sits like that, neck craned, listening to muffled sounds outside his door until he deduces they won’t come – this time – for now, he’s safe. 

 

Only now does Saruhiko glance at his bed to find his vibrant, red messenger hawk gently preening her feathers.  She doesn’t chirp when she sees him; but silently nips at his fingers and allows him to stroke the softer feathers of his neck. 

 

Saruhiko quickly unties the scroll looped around her leg and tears it open. 

 

_Dear F.S,_

_You’re the stupid one – not me! Don’t you know how cool it is to have friends?  Of course you wouldn’t – because you don’t have any!  My mom and dad still go hang out with their friends sometimes – they always leave me in charge with the brats though, so I guess maybe sometimes friends aren’t that great._

_And stop calling me a girl! I told you, I’m a boy dammit! You’re lucky you can even use that name you know? Cause I usually don’t allow it._

_But I’ll let you use it – know why? Because you’re my friend! Ha, bet ya didn’t see that coming! You don’t want friends, but you got one anyways!_

_Anyways, my family is fine.  Meg is going to start school soon and Min is still as annoying as ever, apparently his teachers complain that he’s just like me when I was a kid.  It’s annoying.  How’s your research going? Don’t take forever to write again – I’ve been waiting for ages!_

_Sincerely,  Misaki (you’re new best friend)_

_P.S: Meg really likes the stupid fire candy you recommended, but it still doesn’t compare to real bending – why would you want fire in your mouth?! Non-benders are weird…_

 

Saruhiko stifles his smile with a tight fist against his mouth.  His hawk settles on his shoulder and starts gnawing at the singed pieces of his fringe.  Saruhiko glances at his barricaded door one more time – and with one final reassurance that he won’t be interrupted – he allows himself a gentle smile and reaches for the inkpot tucked neatly into his drawer.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Misaki struggles not to fall asleep into his breakfast.  It’s a Saturday; so Misaki has no good reason to be awake at such an _ungodly_ hour other than to daydream about how good of a pillow his oatmeal’s about to make. 

 

“Did you hear the news?” His step-father lightly sips on the steaming cup of tea his mother places before him.  She hums beside him.  Her father smiles lightly and taps her lightly on the elbow, so she leans over to give him a quick peck on the cheek. 

 

Minoru makes gagging motions beside him – despite the stern look his mother throws at him.  Yata looks away; it still hurts.  “I didn’t – anything interesting?”  She blows gently on Megumi’s oatmeal and pulls out a seat beside her husband. 

 

“We finally overtook the Southern water tribe!” Her father smiles, “It seems like the military is making good progress, after all.” 

 

The oatmeal Yata shovels into his throat tastes like ash. _Don’t tell anyone Misaki – you must never tell._    

 

His mother grins beside him, wearing a sweet smile as if she hadn’t spent sixteen years curled up beside a war-sympathizer.  The only remnant of that lies in Yata’s hazel eyes he inherited from the father that abandoned them. “We’re going to the earth kingdom next,”  His step-father says the words so easily – they tumble out of his lips and he takes a small sip of tea as if he’s talking about the weather – not the homicide of an entire nation. 

 

Minoru starts waving his spoon around like an airplane “Boom!” he screeches, “We’re gonna make the entire earth kingdom go boom!”  His mother laughs, and it sounds shrill in Yata’s ears – his hands itch, small sparks dance beneath the tips of his fingers. 

 

When Megumi, his small little angel, cries out an excited “Boom! Boom!”  Yata startles his mother by jumping to his feet.

 

“Yata?” 

 

His step-father gently places down his mug of tea and his eyebrows furrow together; his face stitches together with concern.  But that’s just the thing.  Misaki can trace the stitching – the way he carefully knits his eyebrows together, the light frown he wears – and he even pinches his nose slightly – it displays just the right amount of worry. 

 

Yata’s mother wears a stone-cold expression.  She doesn’t show anything – she simply watches him from the corner of her eye, hands trembling around the spoon she holds out to Megumi.  Her eyes speak volumes; though.  They _dare_ him to open his mouth, dare him to say _anything_.  “What time is it?!” Yata gasps instead, and he pretends to scramble for his school supplies and watches the tension bleed from his mother’s shoulders.  “I have a project to work on with a friend in the meadow – I completely forgot!”

 

His father chuckles, “Oh Misaki, you’ve always got your head in the clouds.”

 

Yata pretends to laugh and sheepishly rubs the back of his neck before darting from his house.  He sprints into the meadow nestled behind his home; he runs until his thighs burn and the urge to _burn_ doesn’t hike up his throat anymore.  He runs until his stomach lurches and he wretches;  he pukes his breakfast all over the beautiful grassy floor and a sharp sob climbs up his throat against his will. 

 

Yata curls against his knees and allows himself to sob until he’s cried every last tear.  His body still trembles when he rustles through his backpack to pull out a new scroll – he clutches it against his chest and sobs even harder.

 

Yata _hates_ his nation.  But he _loves_ fire.  He loves the flames that burn beneath his skin, and he loves creating ribbons of flame that dance around him, they kiss him as if he belongs to them.  The flames nip at him and dance with him and they’re just so _beautiful_.  Yata never wants his fire to hurt _anyone_.  He wants to play with it and dance with and make beautiful ribbons in the sky that make animals so that Megumi and Minoru will laugh and dance with him. 

 

Yata _never_ wants his fire to hurt anyone. 

 

Yata doesn’t want his fire to end up plastered all over the newspapers, never wants his fire to have a hand in the _death_ of an innocent man.  Yata misses sitting on his father’s shoulders, marveling at the array of benders blending together in a beautiful harmony.  Yata doesn’t understand – how could anyone want to destroy something that beautiful?  How could anyone want to kill something as magical as benders coming together?

 

_Dear Misaki,_

 

_How unfair – it seems you are right.  I guess you’re just tolerable enough that I don’t want to stab a knife in your throat.  So, I guess that’s what you are – a friend.  Don’t get too cocky, your only friend lives halfway across the nation – so what kind of loser does that make you?_

_My research project is going well,  the ants are adapting really well to anything I give them.  It was definitely a stupid idea – but I gave them a peanut butter cookie like you suggested.  They swarmed around the thing just like the ants in your kitchen did.  I think they even started fighting over it!  I had to take it away, I didn’t actually want any of them to die over a stupid cookie._

_I wrote back to you quickly, so I expect the favor to be returned._

_Sincerely, F.S (you’re only friend)_

_P.S:  If Meg still wants to be a bender so bad, you should try to teach her something to get her mind off it – I learned how to throw knives since I was five; maybe she’d like it._

Yata clutches the letter tight against his chest and sobs even harder.  He quickly rubs the tears from his eyes and waits for his sob-laden hiccups to calm down before digging deeper in his school bag to pull out his ink pot and quill. 

 

 _At least someone,_ Yata thinks, _someone understands me._

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Saru’s hand tremble as he clutches his ant farm against his chest. 

 

They all lie motionless, Saru’s heart pounds against his ribs.  He uses his tweezers to gently pry at the little black bodies – not a single one of them moves.  A bitter feeling settles into the back of his throat, and pure _rage_ gnaws at his stomach. 

 

With his farm still gripped tightly between his hands, Saruhiko shoves his dresser barricade aside and storms down the stairs. 

 

His father sits there, with his perfectly styled hair swept behind his ears.  He’s gently sipping a cup of steamy coffee, but when he notices Saruhiko stomping down the stairs – his bored expression morphs into a Cheshire grin.  “Why hello, little monkey, what brings you into the lion’s den tonight?” 

 

Saruhiko slams his farm against his father’s chest so the ants jostle together.  Some of the sand leaks over the top and spills over onto Niki’s black pants.  “You did this.” He snarls, “Didn’t you?”

 

Niki calmly dusts the sand from his jeans – he gently places the ant farm aside and clutches a hand over his heart.  He wears a fake pout on his lips and wraps his arms around Saruhiko to pull him against his chest.  “Oh, no! Did someone do this to your farm? My poor little baby,”

 

Heat sizzles all over Saruhiko’s body – it’s not hot enough to burn.  Just hot enough for a suffocating feeling to climb up his throat.  Saruhiko shudders against his will; Niki always makes sparks far enough that the embers will never touch him – but he’ll feel them, he’ll always feel them ready to leave singe marks all over his skin. 

 

Niki leans over so his soft breath ghosts against Saruhiko’s ear, “Do you want me to show you how I did it?” 

 

Saruhiko struggles to break free; Niki locks an iron grip on his wrist and drags him into their backyard.  Niki laughs, loud and boisterous, and it sounds so shrill and _gross_ in Saru’s ears.  Niki pinches the bottom of Saruhiko’s chin and forces eye contact.  Niki drags him like a ragdoll until he finds a thriving anthill.  Saruhiko gasps, he struggles harder, twisting his wrist in a way that will definitely form finger-shaped bruises later that night.  But his heart pounds in his throat and he can’t think rationally anymore, “Stop! Leave them alone!” 

 

Tears actually spring in his eyes – Saruhiko hasn’t cried in at least a year – and the sight of it makes Niki cackle even louder.  He angles a magnifying glass in such a way that the sun’s reflection heats the glass and Saruhiko sobs as one of the black body starts to writhe under the sizzling heat.  Saruhiko yanks and yanks, but his father holds his ground – Saruhiko can’t look away – if he closes his eyes he _knows_ it will get worse.  So, he stands there, watching his father burn away those tiny lives with tears streaming down his cheeks.  All the while, his father cackles maniacally beside him.

 

One resilient little one breaks free of the stream and scurries off into his anthill.  His father – shockingly – does not destroy the thing.  He just leans over and whispers into Saruhiko’s ear, “Isn’t that sad? Your poor research friends couldn’t do that you know – they all had to die – all because you trapped them.” 

 

Saruhiko finally shoves his father off.  He forces his numb legs to carry him up into his room – he slams the door shut and collapses against his pillow.  He doesn’t lock it; doesn’t barricade it; just falls into his bed and sobs until his eyes dry out. 

 

He yanks a letter from under his covers.

 

_Dear F.S,_

_Woah! So, you’re just going to admit to being my friend so easily? Wow – I really thought I’d at least have to fight you on this one! I’m glad though; it’s pretty lonely, don’t you think?  But I’m happy that you’re my friend._

_Sometimes when I get sad, it really helps to go back and re-read some of these.  This is probably making you laugh right now; I know, so cheesy right?  My dad used to tell me that if I feel strongly about something I should tell someone.  Then he went up and left us all because of the thing HE felt most strongly about; I kind of hate him for that, but I miss him too._

_I’m telling you this because I’m really missing him right now, and I really don’t have anyone to tell.  And I also think the strongest feeling I’m having right now is how much I like you.  I know I don’t know you – and you don’t know me – but I’m really happy you kept writing. It really makes me feel like someone out their cares about me._

_Sincerely, Misaki (your best and only friend)._

_P.S:  If you really want my baby sister to learn how to throw knives, get your butt down here and teach her yourself, weirdo!_

 

Saruhiko clambers to shove the letter back under his cover when Niki throws the door open.  He still wears that Cheshire grin as he leans in the doorway, “Oh – don’t worry about hiding that old thing from me – I saw it already,”

 

Saruhiko’s heart stops completely. 

 

“I came by to tell you that we’re moving – rather close to your _‘best and only’_ friend.”  Saruhiko’s heartbeat starts thundering in his ears.  He _can’t_ let anything happen to Misaki.   _Not_ Misaki. 

 

“So,” his father drawls, “I suppose a game is only fun when the players know their playing – you better warn this cute little _Misaki-chan_ to either get lost or to get ready to have a bit of fun?” 

 

Saruhiko writes a letter with his chest constricted so tightly he can’t breathe. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_I’m moving.  Don’t ever talk to me again._

_-F.S_

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Yata rests his head on his hands and prepares to fall asleep on his desk.  His grades have slipped, within the past month; his mother scolded him a few times over it, but he’s mastered the art of sheepishly rubbing the back of his neck and apologizing he won’t do it again.   It’s an empty promise – he definitely does it again. 

 

Sometimes, when Yata’s eyes drift off, he dreams of his father carding his fingers through his hair and teaching him how to attract fireflies with only a fingertip’s worth of flames.  Other times he clutches a scroll tightly against his chest, waiting for a messenger hawk with vibrant red fathers to swoop in and take it away. 

 

Abandonment settles in his stomach so Yata learns to hate his ex-best friend as much as he hates his father. 

 

The girls across from him giggle, “Hey, isn’t he kind of cute?” 

 

Yata cocks an eyebrow – he cranes his neck and finds a tall boy leaning against the chalkboard.  The teacher hastily gathers her papers together and the boy stands there with his arms folded over his chest and arms closed.  Yata’s heart skips a beat; he _is_ hot. 

 

The teacher finally settles in and clears his throat;  he glares at the girls ogling over the new boy a few seats ahead of him.  “As some of you have noticed – we have a new student joining us today,” He offers a warm smile to the new boy and gestures him forward.  “How about you introduce yourself?” 

 

The boy kicks off the wall and sighs as if it’s a great pain to even speak.  “Fushimi Saruhiko.” He drawls, he keeps his eyes half-lidded and he scratches the back of his neck.  He looks down on all of them as if they’re a room full of pests, and although it makes Yata bristle under his scrutiny – there’s also _something_ familiar about it.  The girls in front of him sigh dreamily, and across the room Yata hears some snickers from a bunch of jealous boys. 

 

“You can take the empty seat beside Yata-kun,”  The teacher glares at Fushimi’s retreating figure.  He shoves his hand into his pockets and drags his feet across the floor.  A deep sigh rattles out of his chest and he drops in the seat next to Yata.  He’s a tower of lanky limbs and black hair.  

 

The teacher starts talking, but Yata can’t stop staring.  “Do you need something?”  Fushimi inspects him from the corner of his eye. 

 

Yata seizes the opportunity.  Next to him sits a boy who knows jack _shit_ about him, about his horrendous life here.  And before his bullies recruit him – this is Yata’s chance.  And he’s going to try his damn hardest to keep this one. 

 

“Be my friend.” Yata grins, smile stretching. 

 

Fushimi snickers, “Absolutely not.” 

 

Fushimi leans back on his chair, mimicking his stance from before and folding his arms over his chest before shutting his eyes.  “What are you doing?” Yata whispers. 

 

Fushimi doesn’t bat an eye. “Sleeping.”

 

“You’re gonna get in – “

 

“Fushimi-kun, although you may be seatmates, I suggest you don’t follow in Yata-kun’s footsteps.”  The teacher glares at the pair of them, and Yata’s ears turn a light shade of pink.

 

Fushimi pries one eye open; he clicks his tongue and sneers at the teacher.  “I don’t need to pay attention.” 

 

The teacher boils up,  “Is that so?”  He sneers at Fushimi and roughly smacks a ruler against the board, “Then how about you come up here and –“

 

Fushimi sighs – it’s long and drawn out and he forcibly blows out a big puff of air as if all the energy in his body left him in one swoop.  “Forty-seven.”

 

The teacher blinks.  “You were going to ask me to solve it – right? It’s forty-seven.”  Fushimi smirks. 

 

A chorus of murmurs erupts among the room, and the red-faced teacher smacks his ruler angrily against the podium.  “Enough!” he seethes, “Everyone quiet down!”  He centers his glare on Fushimi – but doesn’t bother him again. 

 

 _That_ , Yata thinks, _was really fucking cool._  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Yata corners him on the rooftop later – he’s spread out over the asphalt and it reminds Yata of a cat just basking in the sunlight.  The wind ruffles Fushimi’s hair, and in the gentle warmth of the sun, he wears the smallest of smiles that almost make him appear angelic. 

 

“Oi.”  Yata bends down on his knees so he looms over him and pokes his forehead.  “How did you do that?”

 

Fushimi narrows his eyes. “Shockingly, I have no idea what your pea-sized brain is referring to.” 

 

Undeterred, Yata leans back on his hands and allows his body to absorb the energy of the sun.  True to his nature, the sun breathes energy into his veins.  “That math thing – you did it so fast and now Sensei doesn’t even bother you.”

 

Fushimi wrinkles his nose, “I solved it, obviously.” 

 

Yata bristles at the boredom-laced tone.  “Stop doing that.”

 

Fushimi cracks both his eyes open and turns his head to glare, “Doing what?”

 

“Talking to me like that – I’m stupid, sure, but you can’t you at least _pretend_ to be interested?”  Yata grumbles.

 

Fushimi snorts – it almost resembles a laugh, “I don’t pretend anything; I think you’re stupid, and so I’ll act as such – why would I do anything different?” 

 

Yata grins at him; it clearly has some effect – Fushimi’s face morphs from his typical bored expression to something a little disgusted.  Not quite the right direction, but Yata counts that as a win all the same.  “Be my friend,”

 

Fushimi rolls his eyes and shields his eyes from the pounding sun.  _Ah_ ,  Yata’s heart falls, _Not a bender, then._  “You’re persistent,” 

 

“You didn’t say no, that time.” Yata smirks.

 

Fushimi scoffs, “I didn’t say yes, either.  Just go back to your other friends and stop feeling bad for the new kid.”

 

Yata fidgets beside him and Fushimi watches him bury his head against his knees.  He mumbles something into the folds of his uniform and Fushimi can’t hear it.  “I can’t hear you if you’re gonna do that.” 

 

“Ugh!”  Yata whips his head up and pins Fushimi with the meanest glare he has (it’s actually kind of _cute_ , Fushimi thinks, he pouts like a little puppy and his cheeks puff up – it’s only a little adorable).  “I said I don’t have any!” Yata snaps. 

 

Fushimi – shockingly – doesn’t laugh.  He sighs again and rolls his eyes.  “So, what – you’re trying to snag me before your tormenters?” 

 

Yata’s face flushes at the accuracy.  Fushimi rubs a hand over his face and groans. “Look, it’s not you – I don’t want to be _anybody’s_ friend – so you don’t have to worry.” 

 

“Wait no –“ Yata grabs the end of Fushimi’s sleeve just as he starts to stand.  Fushimi glares at the offending hand but Yata keeps spitting out words.  “That’s not the only reason! There’s something about you too, I don’t really know why but I _really_ feel like you should be my friend.” 

 

It sounds like complete bullshit even to Yata, but truth shines in his eyes.  There’s just _something_ reeling him in, drawing him to Fushimi and he can’t quite place it but it’s there.  It’s there and he _wants_ it. 

 

Little embers fall from his fingers before Yata can stop them. 

 

They singe Fushimi’s sleeve – but he doesn’t pull away.  Yata’s heart panics, “I’m sorry!” he cries.  He frantically brushes them out, pressing out the little flames that form between his fingers – fire-bender or not, Fushimi watches tiny blisters form on his finger-tips.  Yata’s hands shake a little.  Fushimi stops him by snatching his wrist and shoving it off of him. 

 

“So – you bend?”

 

Yata swallows – Fushimi’s face looks a lot hollower.  “I didn’t do it on purpose – I _swear_ I didn’t! I’m not good at it yet – and I can’t –“

 

A dry laugh crawls up Fushimi’s throat and it makes Yata cringe.  “Benders disgust me the most.” 

 

Anger surges up Yata’s chest.  “It was an _accident_!” He snaps. 

 

Fushimi shoves him in the chest hard enough that Yata stumbles and his back slams against the concrete wall. He makes a mental tick mark for another bruise.  Yata tries to steady himself, but Fushimi pins him against the wall with slender fingers _wrapped_ around his throat.   Fushimi snarls, a twisted little smirk stretching on his face.  “Is that why you don’t have any friends; do you end up burning them until they agree?” 

 

Yata struggles under his grasp – it doesn’t hurt at all – it’s actually a really light hold, just rough enough that Fushimi keeps him pinned against his well, but light enough that it can’t hurt him.  “Burn me then,”  Fushimi presses harder against his throat – with an insane glint in his eye, Fushimi watches the spark dance at Yata’s fingertips.

 

But Yata shoves his hands behind his back and uses a non-fire-fueled kick to Fushimi’s shin to break free.

 

“Fuck you!” he screams before storming off. 

 

Fushimi listens to the door rattle as Yata slams it shut behind him.  

 

“Heh,” he snickers, “So much for being my friend.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“I saw Saruhiko-kun do it.” 

 

Saruhiko walks into a classroom with melted candle wax practically adhered to the chalkboard.  It smells rotten – so bad that Saruhiko holds his sleeve against his nose to repress a gag.  The teacher catches him strolling in and he’s livid.  “Did you do this?” He snarls.  

 

“No.”  Saruhiko says – wearing the same bored expression as always. 

 

Yata scrambles in behind him; he’s immediately assaulted by the horrid smells and unlike Saruhiko – he doesn’t have the capacity to hide his disgust.  Yata gags out loud, “What came in here and died?!” He pinches his nostrils shut. 

 

Saruhiko glances over his shoulder – he wonders if it’s petty revenge.  Destroy the classroom and blame it on the new kid – he spares a look down to his fingers, he still remembers that slender throat encased in his grasp. 

 

Still – Saruhiko doesn’t think it was Yata. 

 

_There’s something else about you._

Grudgingly, Saruhiko feels that, too. 

 

The same boy from earlier – Haruto – grins at Saruhiko.  “I saw Saruhiko-kun do it – he threatened me not to tell; but it was just so horrible I had to say something.” 

 

Saruhiko bets Yata’s glaring holes into his back – he tilts his head slightly to catch the angered look he _must_ wear – Yata’s not looking at him.  His face betrays no emotion, but Yata keeps his hands curled into fists; when Saruhiko looks closely at them, he sees small sparks of fire erupting from his fingers – Yata shoves his hands in his pockets when he catches Saruhiko looking. 

 

_I don’t have any friends!_

 

Saruhiko switches to glare at Haruto – his smirk reeks of challenge;  he glances between Saruhiko and Yata with an arched eyebrow that screams _You talked to him, this is your punishment._

 

So, Saruhiko relents.  “Fine, I can’t run if I was caught red-handed.” 

 

Haruto blinks – but he quickly changes the shock into his face into fake relief – grinning brightly as the teacher starts to fume such that smoke physically leaves his ears.  It’s a funny sight – and if Yata giggles behind him – Saruhiko swears he didn’t notice it. 

 

They switch rooms for the day – the teacher is notably irritable and picks on Saruhiko; using the worst examples possible.  Of course, Saruhiko trumps them all.  Shockingly,  Saruhiko catches Yata grinning at all his correct answers. 

 

Yata pokes him with a pencil, just as Saruhiko’s drifting off.  “You didn’t do it.” He whispers.

 

Saruhiko rolls his eyes, “Obviously not.” 

 

“Haruto did.” Yata concludes. 

 

Saruhiko glowers, “Do you want a medal for your award-winning deduction?” 

 

Yata wrinkles his nose,  “You sure do love being an asshole,” 

 

Saruhiko sneers and doesn’t grace him with a response.  Yata rests his head on his elbow and watches the leaves fall from the trees out the window.  Saruhiko keeps a steady gaze on him, the rest of the class – Yata doesn’t turn to him once. 

 

They don’t speak for the rest of the day. 

 

Later that day, Saruhiko pinches his nostrils shut with a clothes pin he found in the Janitor’s closet.  He meticulously tries to scrape the gunk off with a gum scraper, but it’s sealed to the board and after thirty minutes of grueling work, Saruhiko makes little progress. 

 

The smell still seeps through his nose, and it’s so bad it makes his eyes start to water.  “Ugh!” Saruhiko angrily slams the gum scraper to the ground and rips the clothes pin from his nose.  He’s immediately assaulted with the rancid stench and sprints outside, sucking in mouthfuls of fresh air before deciding to grab a water bottle, at the very least. 

 

He’s going to be here all night; but that doesn’t matter when he hasn’t got anyone to wait for him. 

 

When Saruhiko trudges back into the classroom; Yata harshly claws at the chalkboard with a slightly bent scraper.  Saruhiko stands there, slightly astonished, as Yata’s face turns a light shade of red.  He huffs out a large breath and quickly slams his hand over his nose; he shoves past Saruhiko and dips his head outside the door to suck in air.  He breathes in too quickly and starts hacking up a cough that sounds like his lungs are dying and Saruhiko digs in his backpack to find a handkerchief. 

 

“If you’re going to stay –“ he mumbles, “Tie this around your face.”

 

Yata smirks; he paints a smug file on his face and gingerly wraps Saruhiko’s gift snugly around his nose.  He says a muffled, “Thanks.”  And they step back into the room.

 

The problem – though – there is only one gum scraper, and two of them.  Yata sheepishly scratches the back of his neck as Saruhiko points this out, and Saruhiko catches the tips of his cheeks turning red. 

 

Then – Yata drags his finger through the crumbled pile of wax that settles on the floor.  He rubs it between his fingers, and it forms a gross looking yellow dust that makes Saruhiko want to gag.  “I have an idea.” Yata grins, “But don’t freak out!” 

 

Saruhiko snorts, “As if,” 

 

Yata’s eyes crinkle up, and even with the handkerchief firmly tied around his face – Saruhiko can tell he’s smiling. 

 

Yata rolls back his shoulders and takes a deep breath.   “Alright, here goes nothing.”

 

Yata stiffens his back and Saruhiko bites his lip to repress a gasp. 

 

Ribbons of flames curl out of Yata’s finger tips.  They weave together and Saruhiko stands there – utterly mesmerized.  Yata swirls his fingers softly, and the little ribbons glide over the chalkboard, braiding together and snaking around each other in an intricate pattern of flames.  Saruhiko gets it;  the wax melts under the scorching heat of Yata’s fire – but he’s too entranced in the flames swirling around Yata’s person.  

 

It’s _beautiful._

 

Saruhiko sits back, he watches tendrils of fire lick up and down Yata’s person as he works.  They nip at his hair and curl around his limbs and settle around him like a wild animal and Yata is a lion tamer.  Saruhiko thinks of his _Misaki,_ he wonders if he creates fire that dances as beautifully as Yata’s does.  Finally, a pile of sizzling hot wax pools at Yata’s feet – and the rancid smell is gone.  Yata yanks the handkerchief down his nose and grins at the shock painting Saruhiko’s features. 

 

He laughs,  “I can do _some_ stuff with it.” 

 

“Fine.” Saruhiko whispers. 

 

“Eh?” Yata blinks in confusion.

 

Saruhiko clears his throat, “Fine, I’ll be your friend. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Yata leans half his body over the railing of the school rooftop and Fushimi snatches him back by the ends of his sweater.  “One of these days – you’re going to fall off like the idiot you are.” 

 

Yata cranes his head backward and wears a lop-sided grin.  Fushimi snickers and looks away to hide the grin creeping into his face.  True to his word, Yata forces Fushimi into some twisted kind of friendship.  Today marks their first month as _friends._  Fushimi refuses to admit; he regards Yata with sneers and smirks, but sometimes Yata drags him over, sits him on the lawn and just plays with his fire.

 

It brings a beautiful smile to Fushimi’s face – and Fushimi thinks he belongs there, tucked in between Minoru and Megumi.  They crawl over his lap – and they’ve seen Yata do it a million times – but the sheer awe never leaves their eyes. 

 

He looks at the retreating sun instead, and a frown replaces his smile.  “I should start heading home now,”   

 

Yata hops down from the railing,  “I’m coming over.” He declares.

 

 _“No!”_ Fushimi snarls. 

 

“U-Uh…” Yata stutters over his words.  Fushimi’s body trembles, there’s deep-set fear etched onto his face, and Yata swears he’s not breathing.  “I won’t stay for long, but I have a longer curfew than you and I’m bored,” 

 

“Yata.” Fushimi pleads.  Yata shudders, Fushimi grasps his shoulder and digs his nails into the flesh.  If he pressed any harder, Yata swears it would draw blood.  “You _can’t_.”  He begs.

 

“Your dad works late.”  Yata pushes, “I’ll leave before he even gets home, aren’t you lonely by yourself?” 

 

Yata bites his lip to hold a grin, Fushimi loosens his grip – but his hands still stay clasped around Yata’s shoulders.  Yata can’t lie – a little piece of him is scared.  Fushimi never reacts strongly to anything – but just the idea of Yata stepping foot into his house invokes such a violent reaction.  He’s terrified, sure, but the curiosity thrumming in his veins keeps him going. 

 

“This really isn’t a good idea.” Fushimi mumbles – his face has drained of color, he looks so pale it almost seems sickly. 

 

“If you don’t take me, I’ll come on my own one day.”  Yata doesn’t expect the threat to work – they never work.  But Fushimi’s pupils blow up and his face turns a light shade of green,  Yata’s heart pounds in his chest – he reaches out to steady him but Fushimi shivers. 

 

“Fine.” He growls, “But only for a little while.”

 

Fushimi doesn’t actually live far from the school building – he doesn’t even live that far from Yata – but Fushimi’s always ridiculously protective over his home.  Yata’s a little giddy; he’s about to step into a space that no one’s ever seen – no one will _ever_ see; but him. 

 

Fushimi robotically allows Yata to follow him inside his room.  The house reeks with an eerie silence, and when Fushimi shuts the door behind them, he bolts the lock – despite the empty house – and he rattles the door to check. 

 

“Fushimi…?”  Yata swallows.  “If you really don’t want me here – “

 

Fushimi sighs.  “No, I…It’s okay.” 

 

Yata settles gingerly onto his bed; and the awkward silence stretches between them.  But finally,  “Can you make sparks with your hands again?”  Fushimi quietly whispers. 

 

Yata grins – as requested – he forms baby embers on the tips of his fingers, juggles them between his hands and beams as the fear etched on Fushimi’s face slowly melts away into that rare, yet gorgeous smile Yata loves to draw out. 

 

They get lost in that – Fushimi becomes so entranced by the tiny sparks that dance across Yata’s palms.  Yata giggles as they tickle his palm and he allows himself to get lost within the pools of Fushimi’s eyes.  They widen when he watches Yata like this, in a boyish way makes Yata’s heart flutter.  And sitting like this – with their thighs pressed together so warmth bleeds between them – Yata drowns in his midnight blue eyes. 

 

A door slams. 

 

Fushimi jumps.  He scuffs out the embers swimming in Yata’s palms with his own hands, he yanks them back with a hiss – new blisters already begin to form and Yata gasps. “Idiot! What did you do?”  Fushimi’s shivering – his hands shake and sweat starts to slip down his forehead; but when Yata touches him, he’s ice cold. 

 

“Fushimi?” He tries carefully.  “What’s wrong?” 

 

The bolts start to turn on his door and Fushimi squishes Yata’s hand.  Yata bites his lip to stifle a painful yelp, Fushimi squeezes his hand so hard the bones grind against each other.  “I forgot the dresser.” Fushimi whimpers.  Yata swallows, Fushimi shudders and roughly shoves him.  Yata tumbles onto his back and scrambles to right himself;  Fushimi shields him with his own body;  he keeps Yata’s hand encased in his own, and a pool of sweat accumulates between their palms – but Fushimi’s hand is still so _cold_. 

 

The door swings open, and a much older man peeks his head through the door.  Yata’s heart skids to a stop.  “Well, what do we have here?” 

 

The man waltzes into the room, and a chill runs down his spine.  The man looks a lot like Fushimi, but different all the same,  he scans over Yata while donning a chilling look.   “Who might you be?” 

 

“Yata.”  He whispers, half his voice gets caught in his throat and he can’t spit out his first name. 

 

“And why are you in my house?” 

 

Fushimi flinches;  his grip on Yata’s hand grows impossibly tighter, and Yata grinds his teeth as to hold in his yelp.  “I’m Saruhiko’s friend.” He mumbles.  “We met at school.” 

 

Perhaps if Yata wasn’t terrified, he’d cherish the first time he said Saruhiko’s name

 

“Hello there, I’m Niki.”  Saruhiko’s father reaches over to ruffle Yata’s hair.  Yata recognizes the signs of fire crackling; a sizzling heat washes over him but it’s quickly ripped away.  Saruhiko lets go of his palm to snatch his father’s wrist. 

 

“Don’t touch him,” he snarls. 

 

Fushimi Niki actually _laughs_ ,  it doesn’t sound _anything_ like Fushimi Saruhiko.  Yata equates Saruhiko’s laughter to tinkling bells, it’s a rare occurrence and it sounds so sweet whenever he hears it. 

 

Fushimi Niki _cackles_.  He laughs with berth, it gurgles out of his stomach and it spills from his lips sounding all wrong and twisted.  It sounds like a screeching record, invading Yata in a way that makes him want to immediately disinfect his ears to wash out the sound. 

 

“Say, Yata-kun, would you like to stay for dinner?”  Niki smiles; it shows all of his razor-sharp teeth.  Yata’s the lamb trapped in a lion’s den.   “Me and Saru can make you something good, I have quite the spices in my kitchen.” 

 

Yata’s stomach lurches. “Yata has to leave now.”  Saruhiko stammers.

 

Yata spares a shaky glance at his friend, Saruhiko has his head hanging low – his bangs fall in his face and Yata can’t read his expression.  His hands curl tightly over his knees and Yata senses the tension simmering off his body. 

 

“My mom wanted me back for dinner.”  He forces out. 

 

Niki frowns, “What a shame, promise you’ll stay next time?” 

 

Yata fidgets, “Yea…sure.” 

 

Niki wears a sweet smile and squeezes Yata around the shoulder, “I mean it Yata-kun, the next time I catch you in my house, you _must_ stay for dinner.” 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Yata folds into his covers that night;  he steals an extra blanket from the cupboard, but the shivers still wreak havoc on his body.  Yata coils deeper, pushing his face into his blankets and allowing the fire boiling in his veins to radiate around him. 

 

When he closes his eyes; all his warmth seeps away. 

 

He sees Fushimi Niki’s cold-set eyes and it knocks the breath straight from his lungs. 

 

Yata swallows, he looks at the moon hanging low outside his window and takes a shuddering breathe. 

 

He knows what he has to do. 

 

Yata snatches a couple of stones on his trek to Saruhiko’s home.  He props open his window with a stick and prays neither of his parents decide to check on him that night. 

 

Yata positions himself just beneath Saruhiko’s window and throws his first rock.  He holds his breath; the stone hits its target and ricochets back.  In the dead silence of the night, it sounds louder than fireworks – it’s louder than the blood roaring in Yata’s ears. 

 

He throws a second. 

 

No answer. 

 

Yata bites his lip and throws a third. 

 

Yata considers giving up. 

 

The window opens. “Are you fucking _crazy?_ ” Saruhiko hisses.

 

Yata shivers as the nighttime winds slice through his thin pajamas but hearing Saruhiko’s voice is the warmest he’s felt all night. “Can I come up?”  he whispers harshly. 

 

Saruhiko doesn’t answer verbally, he pushes the window open wider and Yata clambers up a stalk of vines growing beside the window.  Saruhiko wraps his arms around Yata’s waist when he’s high enough. 

 

He slowly pulls Yata in – pushing all of Yata’s weight against his chest.  They both hold their breaths – and neither breathe in again until Yata is fully encased safely in Saruhiko’s arms.  Saruhiko doesn’t set him down, immediately, he just holds him there, arms looped under his thighs staring deep into the pools of Yata’s velvet brown eyes.  “What the hell are you doing?” he whispers – his breathe ghosts over Yata’s nose; Yata closes his eyes at the warmth. 

 

“I had to make sure you were okay.” 

 

Saruhiko smiles, “I’m fine.”  

 

They stay like; tangled in each other’s arms.  Finally, Yata settles his head in the crook of Saruhiko’s neck and mumbles, “Sorry.” 

 

Saruhiko’s chuckle rumbles in his chest, and  the vibration courses over Yata’s body. “Why?”

 

“I called you by your first name.” 

 

Saruhiko swallows.  “That’s okay.” He whispers, “I…I like it.  When you say it.”  He hugs Yata closer to his chest.  “Can you…say it again?” 

 

Yata closes his eyes and whispers with his lips pressed against Saruhiko’s collarbone. 

 

 _“You’re my best friend, Saruhiko.”_   

 

He doesn’t even think about F.S, or his father when he says it.

 

Saruhiko’s heart clenches; he still thinks of _Misaki._

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

They form a routine of it, after school Saruhiko follows Yata home – he spends time with Megumi and Minoru – helps Yata with his homework (read: does it for him), occasionally he stays for dinner – most of the time he heads home and bids Yata’s family goodbye. 

 

Sometimes they watch Yata play with fire.

 

Some days Saruhiko relents and teaches them how to whip knives at targets.  Yata shrieks when Megumi gets far too interested in that – but the first time Saruhiko does it; Yata wears a strange expression laced with shock – but he quickly shakes it off and marvels at Saruhiko’s grace. 

 

And then, in the late hours of the night, shrouded by darkness – Yata comes to him.   They curl around each other beneath Saruhiko’s covers – they bask in each other’s warmth.   Yata allows Saruhiko to play with the embers that dance on his palm, and Saruhiko allows Yata to run his fingers along the hilt of a blade. 

 

Some nights they both sneak out – too tired of their own suffocating homes – too bask in the moon-covered rooftop of the school. 

 

Tonight is one of those. 

 

Saruhiko lazily twirls a knife between his fingers with Yata curled up beside him.  He lies in the crook of Saruhiko’s elbow, watching the blade shimmer in the moonlight as Saruhiko expertly maneuvers it.  “How did you learn to do that?” Yata asks.

 

Saruhiko shrugs, Yata feels the lazy roll of his shoulders beneath his head. “It was a useful skill, I _hated_ being a non-bender.  And I wanted to prove that I had a method of fighting just as cruelly,” 

 

Yata wrinkles his nose, “Bending shouldn’t be used to fight,” he whispers,  “My dad said that.” 

 

Saru blinks, “But I thought your dad couldn’t bend?”

 

Yata smiles softly, “My real dad,” he explains.  “He used to be a fire-bender, he taught me most of the tricks you guys like.  All they teach in school are dumb fighting stances;  bending is only good for war in this dumb nation after all,” Yata mumbles.

 

Saruhiko frowns, “What happened to him?”

 

Yata inhales a shaky breath, “He dipped.”  He lets out a bitter laugh,  “He got drafted – wanted to jump it – so he left us behind and dipped.  I don’t know where he went; but I’ll never forgive him for that.” 

 

The anger rolls off of Yata in waves; so Saruhiko decides to change the subject.   

 

“So why doesn’t your family call you by your first name?” Saru questions, “Even your mom calls you Yata.” 

 

Yata cringes – for a brief moment Saruhiko thinks he’s chosen another taboo topic, but Yata’s ears turn bright red and Saruhiko grins.   “I don’t really like it,” Yata grumbles.

 

Saru raises an eyebrow, “What is it?”

 

“Oh…” Yata turns a bright shade of pink.  “I-I guess you never heard it…” he mumbles.

 

Saruhiko arches an eyebrow, “Are you embarrassed…of a _name_?”  He laughs, loud and boisterous – Yata reaches over to punch him lightly in the stomach. 

 

“Stop laughing!” He snaps, his ears turn redder.  “It’s an embarrassing name,” 

 

“Did you parents name you after Totoro or something?” Saruhiko snorts. 

 

Yata squeezes his eyes shut and forces the words out in a quick breath. “My name is Misaki.”

 

Saruhiko freezes. 

 

“…M…Misaki?” 

 

Yata cries out in frustration, he rolls around the rooftop – thoroughly embarrassed.  He covers his face with his hands and keeps talking – all of the words are muffled by his hands, but Saruhiko barely hears them anyway.  “Shut up I know okay! It’s a girl’s name – my mom _really_ wanted a girl and they didn’t change it so here I am! If you make fun of me for this – Saruhiko I swear I’m going to – “ 

 

Saruhiko gently lowers his hands from his face.  “Woah…are you okay?”  Yata blinks.

 

Pure joy swirls in Saruhiko’s eyes, he gently rubs his thumbs over the back of Yata’s hand – it makes his heart flutter and butterflies dance in his stomach.  “Are you…are you _really_ Misaki?” 

 

Yata fidgets under his gaze; a bright red blush hikes up his cheeks.  “Y-Yeah.” 

 

Yata Misaki’s first kiss is on his high school rooftop; wedged between concrete and the warm body of his best and only friend. 

 

Saruhiko presses their lips together and at first Yata gasps – Yata pushes him away, cheeks flaming red.   “W-What’s going on?” 

 

Saruhiko leans into Yata’s personal space and presses their foreheads together.  “Stupid _Misaki_ ,” he whispers – the sound of his name rolling off of Saruhiko’s tongue so easily sends warm shivers down his spine – “Don’t you recognize your best and only friend?” 

 

Yata snaps his eyes up, he gets lost into the deep blue madness of Saruhiko’s eyes.  Yata’s breath catches in throat, his heart sings under his ribcage and he wonders if Saruhiko feels it pounding with their chests pressed so tightly together.  “Y-You’re…”

 

_Fushimi Saruhiko_

_F.S._

 

Saruhiko yanks him back by the collar and slots their mouths together again.  Yata arches up without meaning to – but Saruhiko slides his arms around his waist and presses them tighter together.  The fire in Yata’s veins ignites,  he turns his palms upwards – he can’t _hold_ it. 

 

Breathless – Saruhiko breaks away for a single moment.   The sight before him is _beautiful._

Yata’s – _Misaki’s_ – blown pupils peer up at him underneath long lashes; Saruhiko’s so close he can count each strand of chestnut hair that falls into Misaki’s face; and those bruised, swollen lips beckon him _closer_. 

 

And surrounding them, dripping from Misaki’s fingers is _fire_. 

 

Twining ribbons of fire loop around them – the fire doesn’t touch – but just briefly kisses the tips of Saruhiko’s skin.   The flames curl around their limbs, encasing Misaki in a golden light that makes him appear _angelic_.  Saruhiko kisses him again – noses bumping together and Misaki lets his eyes droop close.

 

Saruhiko pulls Misaki’s bottom lip between his teeth, and his heart _thrums_ at the pleasant groan he earns.  Misaki _melts_ for him, opening his mouth and allowing Saruhiko’s tongue to fumble around, exploring every corner of _Misaki_. 

 

 _His_ Misaki. 

 

Finally, Misaki pushes him gently. 

 

Saruhiko drinks in the sight before him – Misaki’s hooded eyes, swollen lips and cheeks flushed a deep red.  His chest heaves up and down.  The weaving lines of fire _illuminate_ him, especially in the shimmering moonlight. “I’m mad at you,” he mumbles, but he presses his palms flat against the concrete to meet Saruhiko in another bruising kiss.  “For leaving me,” he mumbles into their mouths. 

 

Saruhiko sings his apology in another bruise-inducing kiss.   

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Finally home, my little monkey.” 

 

Saruhiko’s happiness is snatched the second he crawls back through his window.  His heart stops at the sound of his father’s voice; his foot catches on a curtain and Saruhiko ends up catapulting – face first – into his room.  He lands hard enough on his face that a small bit of blood seeps out of his nose. 

 

Saruhiko scrambles to his knees;  Niki’s booming laughter strangles his heart.  His father laughs so hard he has to wipe the tears out of the corner of his eyes.  “Oh my – did I scare you?”  Niki laughs so hard he loses his breath and ends up clutching his stomach,  “You poor thing, did you see your face?” 

 

“What do you want?” Saruhiko growls.

 

Niki flashes that smirk, so syrupy smooth and gross clinging to his face. “I wanted to talk with my little monkey, don’t you want to bond with your father?”

 

Saruhiko’s heart thunders in his ears, _“What. Do. You. Want?”_

 

Niki giggles, “I’ve been doing a little research about little Yata-kun.” 

 

Saruhiko’s heart plummets into the pit of his stomach; he forces his hands to stay by his side, but they curl into fists against his will; they tremble against his thighs.  “And guess what his first name is,” 

 

“Don’t touch him.” Saruhiko snarls. “Don’t you _dare_ touch him.” 

 

Niki crosses his legs, “You’re such a demanding little boy, what if I _do_?”

 

Saruhiko’s fists stop trembling.  He glares at Niki with the taste of Misaki’s lips fresh in his mind.  He remembers Misaki’s back arching into him, the taste of salty skin on his lips and Saruhiko returns his father’s smirk that reeks of insanity.  “I’ll kill you.” He says clearly.  “If you touch even one hair on his head, I swear I’ll kill you.” 

 

Niki cackles, “Now that’s some fighting spirit; I can’t _wait_ to see you try.” 

 

Saruhiko understands what he must do.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Yata doesn’t understand. 

 

Saruhiko ignores him. 

 

Saruhiko starts painting a stoic expression onto his face and it _hurts_.  He sneers the first time Yata loops his arms around his waist and shoves him off.  “Get off me.” He growls, “I’m tired of you.” 

 

“Did something happen?”  Yata pulls his arms back – Saruhiko doesn’t look at him.  He doesn’t see the worry lining his eyes. 

 

Saruhiko clicks his tongue – it reminds Yata of the beginning – and somewhere, deep in his gut Yata _knows_ something is wrong.  “You’re boring.” Saruhiko shrugs, he roughly shoves Yata in the shoulder, allows him to stumble to the ground and snickers down at him before stalking off. 

 

Minoru starts asking for him.  “Where’s Saruhiko-nii?”  Megumi even starts whining out Saruhiko in some gibberish form of baby talk when his mother chops things in the kitchen. 

 

Yata groans and runs his hands down his face, he doesn’t _understand_.  In some twisted way – he picked up this friendship the moment his dad left, writing back and forth and earning a friend in some kid that lived miles away.  And it _helped_.

 

Amongst all the madness: the bullying, the war propaganda, his mother’s stern looks with any _inkling_ of his war-sympathizing father – _F.S_ and his vibrant red messenger hawk pulled him through. 

 

And finally, _finally_ , when Yata finds him – he leaves.  Yata _finally_ gets accustomed to having an immobile figure in his life – someone who understands every piece of him – someone who will love him unconditionally and _never_ leave.    But yet, here is, lying in his bed staring at an empty ceiling because Saruhiko did just that.

 

Yata rolls around in the dead of the night; cheek squashed against his pillow.  He groans,  Saruhiko’s probably fiddling with his knives right now – tucked underneath his covers.  He’s probably barricading his door to escape from his evil father’s clutches.  Yata’s brain skids to a stop. 

 

 _Oh_. 

 

He’s a fucking idiot. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Saruhiko’s heart stutters to a stop when a barrage of stones rain down on his window.  One of them pierces through – and shattered glass covers his bedroom floor.  “Oi!”  Saruhiko’s heart thuds.  That’s _Misaki_.  “Oi, Fushimi Saruhiko! If you think getting rid of me is this easy, you’re _wrong!_ ”

 

Saruhiko curses under his breath.  He sprints through the broken glass – one of them leaves a gash in his foot that starts spewing blood – but Saruhiko ignores it.  He leaves bloody footprints as he dashes outside, heart roaring in his chest. 

 

“ _Misaki!”_ he roars.  “ _Run!”_

 

Saruhiko presses his back against his front door;  the blood rushes to his ears – Niki is coming.  He feels it; Saruhiko hears Niki’s creepy hum stinging in his ears.  It’s suffocating;  Saruhiko’s chest seizes around his heart; his lungs collapse around him and he can’t _breathe_.  Niki is _coming._  Cold sweat pools on his forehead, and his trembling hands can barely grip a knife properly and he can’t do _anything_. 

 

Niki is _coming_. 

 

Misaki isn’t _leaving_. 

 

Saruhiko is helpless, he is lost.  He’s going to watch his father snatch away his only love.  Just like the ants – just like anything Saruhiko has _ever_ loved.  His father shoves the door open – Saruhiko lands on his hands, the concrete scrapes his palms and droplets of blood stain the grass – they join the red stream already escaping his feet. 

 

Saruhiko cries.  He cries so hard he starts to choke on his own sobs, his chest _burns_ – he can’t really breathe, his lungs burn – too, but not with the beautiful ribbons of fire that Misaki makes.  They burn with the harsh, _cold_ , spirals of flame his dad uses to singe his hair.  They burn with that memory fresh in his mind. 

 

“Poor baby,” Niki cackles, “You’re about to lose your toy.” 

 

Misaki shouts – Saruhiko’s world is overtaken by _fire_.

 

Saruhiko’s never seen Misaki’s fire do anything but dance.  Misaki makes ribbons, crafts beautiful curls and waves and loops his fire all around them in a warm, comforting embrace.  Bur right now – Misaki _glows_.   He’s enveloped by scorching _fire_ ;  Saruhiko squints – somewhere in their he catches Misaki’s tear-stained, cheeks – and vibrant brown eyes. 

 

 _I don’t really want my fire to hurt anyone_.

 

Misaki punches, teeth tightly clenched together, with flames swirling around his fist.  Saruhiko sees the veins popping out of his wrist, and the raw rage swimming in his eyes.  His father chuckles – expertly ducking around seething flames. 

 

“You’re pathetic,”  Niki glowers – he douses Misaki’s flames with a quick sweep of his hand.  Misaki topples over – face first in the grass.  He scrambles backwards; and with another battle cry – a hurricane of swirling flames swallows him again.  The flames lick the grass;  the green stalks disintegrate. 

 

Saruhiko stares – completely numb. 

 

“You’re an asshole,” Misaki screeches – the flames surrounding him pulse with each breath he takes.  “You’re disgusting.  You _hurt_ him.”   

 

Misaki stomps his foot – his fire lunges.  It rides the breeze, soars across the grass and Niki rolls his eyes. 

 

Logically, Misaki is only a kid – he’s no match. 

 

Niki hisses. 

 

Saruhiko gasps – breath taken. 

 

There – sitting on Niki’s perfectly sculpted cheek – is a burn mark. 

 

 _Misaki’s_ burn mark.

 

Niki gently strokes the mark with his index finger – his eyes land on Misaki; swaying with his dying flames.  He’s gasping for air;  Niki snarls.  “I’m going to end you.” 

 

Saruhiko hates his father.  He hates every fabricated lie he’s told.  He hates the resemblance between them.  He hates sharing a last name.  He hates all of the toys, the animals, the _people_ he’s lost at the sick, twisted hands of a man he has to call his _father._  

 

Saruhiko hates that he’s so powerless in front of him. 

 

But of all the things he hates about his father – that’s the one thing he can change. 

 

Saruhiko curls his shaking fingers around the hilt of his knife.  His lungs still scream in agony, every drip of oxygen he swallows feels like ash sliding down his throat.  With the amount of burnt grass swirling in the air – a good amount of it probably is. 

 

Niki cackles – Saruhiko watches Misaki stumble – he used too much fire.  Saruhiko smirks – stupid benders – they don’t have anything when they lose stamina.  They lose _everything_. 

 

Saruhiko is glad he’s not a bender.  He loses _nothing_. 

 

The grass silences the sound of his footsteps, the dwindling remnants of Misaki’s flames guide him to his target. 

 

Niki creates a cold flame above Misaki’s head, he cackles that _stupid_ laugh that haunts Saruhiko even in his dreams; it makes him wake up and wretch until the stupid sound is drowned away with the smell of bile. 

 

Saruhiko will not be a victim.

 

Saruhiko stabs his father in his black, bitter heart. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Fushimi Niki is buried on a rainy Tuesday, smack in the middle of June – one of the hottest months of the year.  None of Saruhiko’s extended family make it to the funeral; it’s a small gathering of the village people.  They all line up; dressed in a stark white and gently shake his hand; a few of them press money into his palms.  Saruhiko sneers as usual; they write it off as adolescence, as the pain of losing a father so young.

 

Saruhiko makes the choice to incinerate him; he also makes the choice to cease investigation of his murder. 

 

He stands in the front, watching the fire lick at the remains of his father.  Misaki – dressed in pure white – marches around the wooden enclosure; repeating some mantra after the lead bender along with his fellow benders. He twists the words under his breath; he holds eye contact with Saruhiko when he does it. 

 

Misaki’s mother offers Saruhiko a warm dinner and a bed that night.  Saruhiko politely accepts with his head hanging low and just the right number of tears twinkling in his eyes. 

 

Saruhiko follows Misaki home; they settle into a nook of the meadow – Minoru and Megumi make up some game downwind in the grass.  Saruhiko watches them; he watches Megumi mimic the swift twist of a knife-thrower’s wrist.  Saruhiko’s father is dead – but he cares more about Yata Megumi easily miming his knifes tricks. 

 

“She’s learning,” he beams. 

 

Misaki watches her for a moment, “They missed you,” he mumbles, “When you started ignoring me, those idiots missed you as much as I did.” 

 

“I missed them too,” Saruhiko whispers under his breath.  “…can we go deeper?” Saruhiko questions, “Deeper into the meadow – I love them, but I don’t really want them to see me right now.”

 

Misaki silently twines their hands together and leads them into the depths of the meadow.  “I don’t think I’ve ever really gone this far,” He glances back – Megumi and Minoru are too far to see, anymore. “The farthest we ever went was the creek a little while back, Minoru fell in once when we were playing hide and seek – I had to fish him out and flash dry his clothes, so we wouldn’t get in trouble.”  

 

Saruhiko hums softly and squeezes their palms together.  Misaki swallows, “Are you…sad?”

 

“I killed him,” Saruhiko mumbles; he wears a harrowed look.

 

Misaki pauses amidst the grassy field.  “That doesn’t mean you don’t have a right to be sad.” 

 

Saruhiko swallows.  “I don’t think I am.”  He shuts his eyes roughly, “Are you?”

 

Misaki shrugs, he scuffs his feet in the grass, allowing the dirt to sink between his toes.  “Not really.” 

 

Saruhiko collapses into the grass – his eyes stay firmly shut; so Misaki takes a chance. 

 

Misaki gingerly sits next to Saruhiko; he leans over so their noses brush lightly against each other and Saruhiko’s breaths fan over his face.  He lets his eyes drift shut, relishing Saruhiko’s warm breath tickling his nostrils; Misaki kisses him. 

 

He means to pull away, really, he does, but Saruhiko snakes his arms around Misaki’s waist.  Saruhiko pulls from the kiss to speak in shuddering breaths,  “Just let me have this for a little while.” 

 

Misaki obliges. 

 

Saruhiko nibbles on his lips; and Misaki can’t hold in the pleased mewl that erupts from his mouth.  Saruhiko presses their noses together; and drinks in the scent of fire that surrounds Misaki.  He greedily swipes his tongue against the corner of Misaki’s mouth. 

 

Misaki giggles into the kiss, and Saruhiko mimics the lines of his smile.  Misaki allows Saruhiko to explore the inside of his mouth; he presses his tongue in all the hidden corners and Misaki shivers against him.  Saruhiko pulls him closer and breaks the kiss for a moment – Misaki actually _whines_ when Saruhiko leaves him. 

 

Saruhiko chuckles, “Someone’s impatient.”  His voice tingles down Misaki’s spine, it’s low and heavy – laced with a burning desire similar to the that which  pools in the pit of Misaki’s stomach.  Saruhiko gently guides Yata to straddle him, the hiking blush that climbs up Misaki’s neck is a mixture of embarrassment and _need_.  And he can’t really bring himself to care. 

 

Misaki snatches Saruhiko’s lips again, angling his face downward so he can peck at Saruhiko’s bottom lip with his teeth.  Saruhiko arches against him; a breathy moan of _Misaki_ tumbles out of his mouth.   Misaki whimpers against Saruhiko’s lips; their breathes tangle together and when they pull away – Misaki burns the imagine into his mind. 

 

Saruhiko’s panting heavily and a deep, red, flush rises in his cheekbones.  His half-lidded eyes reveal midnight blue pupils blown to the point where Misaki drowns in them.  Saruhiko reaches forward to cup his jaw.  _“Misaki_.” He groans, Saruhiko leans in and nibbles at the ends of his ear. 

 

Misaki gasps; his back arches forward and a breathy cry of _“Saru,”_ tumbles from his mouth. 

 

Saruhiko freezes. 

 

For a moment, Misaki thinks he’s done something wrong.  But then, “Say it again, _please_.”  Saruhiko sounds desperate and needy.  Misaki lowers himself slightly, so the bulge in Saru’s pants nestles against his thigh; he wraps his arms around Saru’s neck and licks the shell of his ear, relishing the shudder that courses over Saru’s body.  _“Saru.”_  

 

Saru dips his fingers under the hemline of Misaki’s shirt; he traces wet, sloppy kisses down from his collarbone.  Misaki whimpers under his touch, the feeling of his burning fingers ravaging his body;  when Saruhiko pauses to suck an open-mouthed mark into his throat, a throaty moan tears from his throat. 

 

Misaki gets daring.  He nuzzles his nose against the side of Saru’s throat, allowing his hot breath to fan over the sensitive skin before dipping his hands into the waistband of Saru’s pants.  Misaki only grazes the soft flesh of Saru’s cock with the tip of his finger’s;  but Saru thrusts against his hand; he calls his name with hoarse cry and Yata’s own bulge twitches with interest. 

 

Saruhiko grabs his wrist; he pulls Misaki into a searing kiss by the collar, slotting their mouths together and wasting no time to carve out the roof of Misaki’s mouth with his tongue.  “Let me have you,” Saru mumbles against his mouth.  He releases Misaki’s mouth to lick a thin stripe along the side of his neck that has Misaki bucking against Saru and releasing a string of fumbled words – all variations of Saru’s name.

 

 _“Let me have every inch of you.”_ Saru begs. 

 

Misaki shakily clasps his hands around Saruhiko’s jaw – pressing their foreheads together and sharing the same breath. 

 

_“I’m already yours.”_

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

They’re strolling into the market, heading off to purchase some ingredients for Misaki’s mother when Yata accidentally bumps into a group of soldiers.  One of them smirks down at them, “Watch it, kid.”  He watches the light sparks dance on Misaki’s finger tips and his smirk widens.  “Oh lovely, some more brats to drag into the draft.” 

 

Saruhiko narrows his eyes, “Mind your own business.”

 

The soldier clicks his tongue, “Oh – or maybe we’ve got a couple of draft-dodgers to deal with, eh?”  He wears an evil smirk. 

 

Misaki growls and clenches his fist.  Saru lightly touches the inside of his wrist to quell the sparks that begin to form – but when Misaki meets his gaze – he’s fuming.  “You don’t know anything about us,” he snarls. 

 

The soldier sneer down at them, “You’re Niki’s kid.” 

 

Misaki and Saru share a fearful gaze.  The soldiers bark out a laugh,  “Damn – Niki really must have fucked you up if you get that scared even when the bastard’s dead.” One of them snorts.    

 

Misaki screams and throws a fire-fueled punch.  Saru hisses under his breath,  a wad of flames encompasses his fist.  Misaki rushes forward – rage bubbles in his eyes – he almost marks a landing; but one of the other men grab him by the scruff of his collar and whip him to the ground. 

 

Misaki hacks out a cough, the impact knocks the air out of his lungs and he struggles to breathe.  One of the soldiers yank his hair back and leans down to spit in his face.  “You think you’re so high and mighty you little brat? You think you’re above us? You’re going to end up here, _Misaki-chan,_ no bender left behind.” 

 

Fear curdles in Misaki’s stomach; then there’s blood dripping down his forehead. 

 

The man screams, he releases Misaki’s hair and pulls his hand back – there’s a two-inch blade jammed into his palm;  Saru twirls a second one around his fingers.  “Don’t touch him.” He snarls. 

 

“I’m gonna fucking kill you brats.” The soldier snarls, he rips the blade from his palm and charges forward. 

 

Misaki braces himself beside Saru – but the impact never comes. 

 

A wall of beautiful red flames swallow the both of them – Misaki stumbles back into Saru – the flames don’t touch them.  They spin wildly and Misaki hears voices screaming beyond its protective walls – but he can’t make out any of the words.  Saruhiko presses against his back, twining their hands together. 

 

The fire dies. 

 

Misaki whirls around to find a man standing before them.  A cigarette hangs from his lips; he lazily peers down at them – surrounded by a group of men also in the same uniform as those soldiers.  But their tormenters are gone.  Saruhiko squeezes Misaki’s shoulders. 

 

“Oi Mikoto,” the red-haired man’s eyes twitch at the call of his name. “Don’t bother a bunch of kids.” 

 

Mikoto peers down at them,  “You benders?” 

 

Misaki swallows, something about him commandeers respect.  “I am.” 

 

Mikoto briefly glances at Saruhiko. “There’s a cargo truck leaving for the earth kingdom tonight.”

 

He doesn’t say anything else. 

 

Misaki shivers when Saruhiko presses into his side. 

 

They know what they must do. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Four years later, Saruhiko’s wiping down tables with an exasperated smile wearing down his face.  “Doesn’t this ever get old?” 

 

Uncle Iroh kicks up his feet on the table beside him,  grinning into his cup of tea.  If Saruhiko catches the little sparks that heat his cup – he doesn’t say anything.  “It’s rather entertaining to watch, though. 

 

Misaki smacks Zuko across the head with a dishtowel.  “You look too much like a brooding firebender, that’s why all the women are scared of you!” 

 

“I look like a firebender?!” Zuko shrieks, “ _You_ look more like a firebender!” 

 

“Boys, boys.”  Iroh calls, “You _both_ look like firebenders.” 

 

Saruhiko sighs – he could get used to a life like this. 

**Author's Note:**

> soooo….I rewatched atla for probably the 7th or 8th time, and well, i couldnt contain this 
> 
> Written for sarumi fest 2018!


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